


Goodbye

by elimalfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addict Sherlock, Injured Sherlock, Other, Suicidal Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimalfoy/pseuds/elimalfoy
Summary: “The whole world has come crashing down around you.Everything's hopeless.Irretrievable.I know that's what you must feel but I can only help you if you completely open yourself up to me.”“You’re right.” He said and chuckled in spite of himself. “You’re absolutely right. The world has come crashing down on me, so let me ask you this: what’s the point?”





	Goodbye

_ “The whole world has come crashing down around you. _

_ Everything's hopeless. _

_ Irretrievable. _

_ I know that's what you must feel but I can only help you if you completely open yourself up to me.” _

 

“You’re right.” He said and chuckled in spite of himself. “You’re absolutely right. The world has come crashing down on me, so let me ask you this: what’s the point?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, Mr. Holmes.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” And with that, he was gone, out the door and onto the street. He knew exactly where he was going. Why hadn’t he realized it before? It was so obvious. John hated him. There was only one last thing he had to do. Reaching his flat, he struggled significantly to locate a pen a piece of paper. Really, what was the point of Mrs. Hudson if he couldn’t find something to write with.

_ Dear John, _

_ I’m sorry. I made a vow to you, and I broke it. I promised I would protect you. I couldn’t keep my word. As I am finding these days, I am an increasingly sentimental man, so I hope you can forgive me. And even if you can’t, I suppose it will matter to me very little where I’m going. I would say that I regret doing this, if only for how I know it will impact you, but I truly don’t believe you care anymore. Thank you for freeing me, I suppose. And at the same time, thank you for saving me. _

_ Goodbye, _

_ Sherlock _

* * *

 

John stood outside the door for a long time contemplating what he was going to do. Best case scenario, he was out. Worst case, he wasn’t and John had to leave before he was noticed. Finally, taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door.

“Oh! John! What a surprise.” It was Mrs. Hudson, who had evidently been on her way out to collect the mail. “John, I really am so sorry, if there’s ever anything I can do to help..”

He nodded politely, as he had learned to do very well recently. It wasn’t that he didn’t want anyone’s help, it was just that it would entail letting them in, letting them see how broken he was. “Is he in?”

“No, ran out of here a little while ago, he was in the strangest mood, didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Right, well I’ll just pop up and grab a few things then.”

He had to take another labored breath before making his way up the stairs. It was impossible to speak to anyone without feeling exhausted afterward. He had to fight so hard to keep himself from either breaking down or lashing out. When he did reach the flat, he was amazed by how tidy it was. It wasn’t the fact that Mrs. Hudson had cleaned recently, that was a different kind of tidy. The rooms looked like they’d hardly been lived in. He checked the refrigerator, no heads or extremities. He checked Sherlock’s room, the bed was made and there were no clothes piled on the floor. He checked the fireplace, not even a speck of dust. Shaking off his confusion, he began to grab the few things he’d come to collect.

That’s when he noticed the letter. It was sitting right in the middle of the desk, clearly separated from the case files. Hesitantly, he read it.

“Oh Christ.”

* * *

 

“You heard what I said!” Mycroft screamed agitatedly into the phone. “I want everyone one this. I need every known crack den searched! I don’t want another phone call until you’ve found him.”

He rubbed his face with his hands. It couldn’t be happening again. He couldn’t stand this feeling, not knowing whether he was alive or not. Not knowing where he was or what state he was in. The calming presence of a hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“They’ll find him.” It was Greg, he hadn’t heard him let himself in. He really was slipping. Mycroft drew a shaky breath and prayed that he was right.

* * *

 

It was euphoric, the feeling of the drugs coursing through his veins. All troubles, all thoughts vanished. It was pure bliss. Silence at last. He’d forgotten just how amazing it was. Staying clean was boring, this was...fantastic. John wouldn’t be pleased, he thought. No, he’d be very hurt indeed. He’d probably go on about how he promised he’d be clean. How he’d promised to protect her. Then he remembered, John didn’t care. John hated him. That was why he was here after all.

In his dazed state, he reached for another needle. The last batch had been enough to get high, but it wasn’t enough to kill him. Which was, after all, the goal. Yes, everyone’s life would be so much better with him gone. John wouldn’t have a constant reminder of the man who killed his wife. He would be able to recover without his annoying presence. Mycroft wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. He wouldn’t have to call in anymore favors or continue to reign him back in when he got out of control. Poor--what was his name? Greg?--he’d have to start solving his own cases. But that, too, was for the best.

He’d come this close to death before to know what was about to happen. It was going to get cold, very cold, and he’d slip into the darkness. Except this time there would be no one to draw him back. Even if they did manage to find him, which was doubtful given the extent to which he’d gone to hide himself, they’d be too late. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon it would be over.

* * *

 

John sat quietly in his chair, the only indication of his stress being the tapping of his left foot. He’d searched all of Sherlock’s known hideouts, all the drug houses he’d found him in before. He was nowhere. God, he thought, what if he’s already gone? What if the last words he said to him were words of hate? Of course he was angry. And quite frankly, that was completely valid. But he didn’t mean, didn’t think this would happen.

A part of him hated Sherlock. He had made a vow, he had promised over and over again, that he would protect them. He had convinced John that Mary could be saved. And that was the part that really got to him. It wasn’t so much that Mary had died in his place, that was exactly why he had loved her: her fierce protection of the people she cared about. It was that Sherlock had lulled him into this false sense of security, this place where he believed that he and Mary could live a happy, long life together.

But a part of him still cared about Sherlock’s wellbeing. He was, after all, after everything they’d been through, his best friend. And as much as he hated to admit it, nothing could change that. Sure, right now he didn’t like him. Didn’t mean he stopped caring about him. Didn’t mean he wanted this to happen. How could Sherlock think that this would be okay with him?  _ “I truly don’t believe you care anymore,”  _ he had said. He had no idea what he was talking about. But then again, Sherlock had never really understood the functionings of an average human being.

* * *

 

When Mycroft heard his phone ring, it took all he had not to lurch for it immediately. First, he took a deep breath and braced himself for the awful news he knew waited for him. It had been hours, much too long. If he knew anything about his brother it was that he was intelligent, far too intelligent for his own good. He wouldn’t wait, he would have done things as fast as he could.

Cautiously, he pressed the answer button.

“Yes?”

“Sir, we found him.” Mycroft steadied himself on the wall. They’d found him, three words. Not “He’s alive”, just “we found him”.

“And?” He said, shakily.

“And...they’re trying to resuscitate him now.”

“Where?”

“Some abandoned flat in Chelsea, it wasn’t one of his known hideouts so we didn’t think to look here. But we talked to his homeless network and apparently one of them saw him go in earlier today.”

Smart, Mycroft thought, but not smart enough. They’d found him. But was it too late?

* * *

 

How tedious, he thought. That there were sirens nearby right as he was trying to die. How rude. He was close now, he could feel it. Why couldn’t they shut up? But they were getting closer and closer, and then they were gone completely, and once again there was only silence. And darkness. And the cold.

Then he was aware of everything again, the harsh overhead lights, the bustle of people running around him, the awful headache he had. No, not just a headache, every inch of him hurt. So this is what death feels like. No, not death, definitely not death. He was very much alive. But how, when he had made sure to hide himself, when he had shot up much more than a lethal dose, when he had done it all so quickly.

Mycroft. He could almost sense his presence. He had no doubt put England’s finest on the case. Find his troublesome little brother. How unfortunate. He had really planned on ending it all, and now it looked as though he had failed. Please, please, he thought, let me die.

Almost in response, the heart monitor cut out.

* * *

 

“Do you remember that day in the cemetery?”

_ Beep, beep… _

“Do you remember what I said?”

_ Beep, beep… _

“I said, ‘one more miracle, Sherlock, for me,’”

_ Beep, beep… _

“Well, I’m going to say it one more time, one last time: Don’t...be...dead.”

_ Beep… _

Then there was silence. Silence so tangible that the air felt like lead in his lungs. There wasn’t blood coursing through his veins anymore, there was ice. And for a minute, it was just the two of them. Two broken men. Each having saved the other too many times. Having saved the other every time, except this time. Except the one time it mattered.

* * *

 

There were people around him, no doubt. Greg, Mrs. Hudson, John. But it was all far away. Right now it was just him. Him and the knowledge that his brother wouldn’t survive the night. Three times. His heart had already stopped three times. He was lingering on the edge of life and death but it was only a matter of time now. People didn’t come back from this.

And that’s what he had intended. That’s what he’d wanted. He’d tried before, many times. But this hadn’t been an attempt. This had been the end. He tried to rationalize it, to believe that his brother had been in so much pain that this was the most merciful option. Maybe he was selfish and wanted to believe that living was better, if only to spare himself the pain. Surely Sherlock had considered how this would affect him. Even though they had never exactly been “close” he must know how much he cared for him--loved him.

How dismal they must all look. Mrs. Hudson dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Molly sniffling every so often. John pacing back and forth. Mycroft staring off into the distance. Lestrade doing his best to cheer everyone up. It took them all a moment to realize that one of the doctors was now standing in front of them.

“Who’s here for Sherlock Holmes?”

They all answered in unison.

“Right, well I can only really speak to next of kin…”

Mycroft stood up, bracing himself as best he could.

“Are you John Watson?”

“Excuse me? No, I’m his brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that next of kin is designated as John Watson.”

Shakily, John rose. “That would be me.”

Sherlock had made him next of kin? When? Why? He trusted him so much he had literally put his life in his hands.

“Could you come with me for a moment?”

The doctor’s words blended together. Cerebral hypoxia. Coma. organ failure.

“I’m sorry. We’ll see how the next 24 hours go, but you should say your goodbyes.”

* * *

 

“Right, well, don’t really know what to say in this situation.”

Lestrade’s voice cracked as he looked down at the man, once so alive, reduced to tubes and cords.

“I mean, you have to get better, who’s going to solve my cases if you’re gone.”

He didn’t know why he kept waiting for a response. He didn’t even know if Sherlock could hear him.

“Bit shit of you to do this to John. It’s going to hurt him the most.”

* * *

 

“I mean I know I know what the doctors are saying, I’m a doctor for God’s sake. It just doesn’t make sense, you know? I guess that happens when someone you care about is sick. Look at me, blabbering on.”

Molly’s false air of cheerfulness fell flat as her smile faltered and tears began running down her face.

“I know you don’t love me, not the way I love you anyway, but please, please, stop this. Wake up. If not for me, then for John, he wouldn’t be able to survive losing you again.”

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson reached for his hand but withdrew quickly when she felt how cold it was.

“Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?”

She stood sniffling for a while.

“Listen, I know you’re hurting. I know you blame yourself. But Sherlock, there was nothing you could do. Mary chose a life for herself and one day it caught up to her. She always knew it would. And the best way you can honor her memory is by being there for the people she left behind. You can’t be here for John like this. He needs you, so much more than he’d ever admit.”

* * *

 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said, drifting off.

He’d seen Sherlock like this before. He’d seen the after effects of anoverdose. It had broken his heart then and it broke his heart now. This was different though. He had never before been so intent on dying.

_ He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever. _

It seemed that where John Watson was concerned, his brother would do anything. And it seemed without John Watson, he would do anything too.

“You know I find sentimentality a human flaw, but you must know--you have to know--that I care deeply about you. You’d laugh at me right now if you heard me say this, but I do love you Sherlock. And so does John. So If you can’t come back for me, come back for him.”

* * *

 

“You’re a bloody drama queen, do you know that? Thinking I wouldn’t care, going off and killing yourself. You made me a vow, remember? Your only vow. You promised you would never let me down. Well, you’ve let me down now. No, not when Mary died. That wasn’t your fault. Yes, I was angry, I needed space, I needed time to grieve.”

He took a deep breath.

“You are letting me down now because--”

His voice cracked and a tear slid down his cheek.

“Because I fucking need you, okay? I can’t live without you. Remember? It’s us against the word. So you better wake up. No, you have to wake up. I’m not giving you a choice anymore. Wake up. Okay? Just do that for me.”

* * *

 

How long had it been? Time had ceased to exist. Everyone sat in a row, waiting, hoping, that any second a doctor would come out and give them good news. They’d been getting regular reports, but his condition has remained unchanged. All trying not to think of the worst case scenario but all still thinking of it. They’d said their goodbyes, but none of them were ready to let go.

“John?” The doctor had come out without any of them noticing, all too engrossed in their fear. “He’s awake. He’s asking for you.


End file.
